


Trouble

by Scrunyuns



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Height Differences, Kissing, M/M, Macca cant stop wont stop being a doctor(TM), Macca is HUNG, Masturbation, Praise Kink, Special 2: The Squeakquel, author is always a slut for semicolons, but like. ROMANTIC, hickey really is a devious seducer (but macca doesnt mind none), pwf (porn with feelings), the author’s kink is ppl gazing lovingly into each others eyes?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25657894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunyuns/pseuds/Scrunyuns
Summary: Dr. McDonald tries his level best to be professional, but he is only a man.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Dr Alexander McDonald
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	Trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [everyone who wanted them to fuck in the first fic](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=everyone+who+wanted+them+to+fuck+in+the+first+fic).



> The sequel to ‘Special’, which you should prolly read before reading this one, if you haven’t already. This one goes out to everyone who was disappointed with how Hickey & Macca never got to fuck it out in that other fic. I hope u all enjoy this bandaid! lol

A few light knocks on the doorframe.

It is customary to wait for a reply, of course, but Dr. McDonald’s visitor is apparently in a rush; before the doctor can think to answer, the door is drawn to the side.

“Afternoon,” Hickey greets him as he carefully pokes his head in, his face uncharacteristically hesitant. “Is Dr. Peddie in?”

Assistant Surgeon Alexander McDonald wouldn’t dream of turning away a patient in need. However, after his last encounter with Petty Officer Cornelius Hickey, he has been praying to all that is Holy that he would never have to face the man again. But in such close quarters, this was a fool’s hope. He knew that.

“He, er, he is under the weather today, I’m afraid. Been working himself too hard.”

It’s the beginnings of scurvy, of course. McDonald had of late started noticing bruise-like discolorations on Dr. Peddie’s arms, but Hickey doesn’t need to know that. Best if he knows as little as possible; if the caulker’s mate is known for anything, it’s for having loose lips and a penchant for disorder.

Hickey frowns, scratching his forehead. The little sailor looks ill at ease, seems to ponder something for a moment before he sticks his hand down his right coat pocket to retrieve a small piece of paper.

“I’ve a message from Lieutenant Irving,” he says as he unfolds it and holds it out for McDonald to read. “I shall need to undergo a final assessment in order to be cleared for full duty.”

The doctor takes in the note, checking that all is in order. The Lieutenant’s familiar signature adorns the bottom of the page.

“And… Dr. Goodsir was not at your disposal?”

Hickey lets out a small laugh, amused by McDonald’s obvious reluctance to help.

“Well,” he says, “receiving any help from him might prove tricky at the moment, Doctor. You recall he’s returned to Erebus?”

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

How could he forget. His mind must be slipping... or perhaps just prone to wishful thinking.

“When the girl went,” Hickey continues, “so did Goodsir. Suppose he didn’t care to stay here in the slums with the rabble.”

McDonald won’t bite; he will not be goaded into talking ill of Harry Goodsir. The young surgeon is a fine man, and a kind soul. Not one to neglect his duties.

“Well. There’s hardly any rabble left here on The Terror to be slumming with. His services are needed more back on Erebus now.”

Hickey continues to look him straight in the eye, seems to be expecting something. There are a few seconds of silence that hang in the air between them like a foul odor and McDonald can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. He doesn’t even register how he is nervously wringing the washcloth in his hands until a few drops of water land on his shoes.

“Will you come again tomorrow?” he asks. “Dr. Peddie might be-“

“I am not here to degrade myself, Dr. McDonald,” Hickey cuts in, softening his rude interruption with a gentle smile. He looks away before he continues, oddly bashful. “I want to be here just as little as you want me here. But Irving… well, he was quite insistent I bring him an answer today. They need all hands for the preparations for the evening, and he seems to be under the impression I’ve been using my latest misfortune to shirk my responsibilities.”

The compelling speech ends abruptly, and he fixes Dr. McDonald’s eyes with his own pale blues. His gaze is arresting. The doctor knows he’s in trouble now; his pulse quickens, he starts breaking a light sweat. There is a flutter in his chest, and he feels somewhat lightheaded.

Now, if these were the symptoms of a patient that had come seeking his expert opinion, he would’ve said it’s congenital heart disease of some sort. But the underlying cause of his symptoms is not unknown; the blame lies entirely on an enigmatic young sailor who does not possess the good sense to keep himself out of trouble.

“Look, you won’t have to do anything, Doctor, just sign the-“

“Remove your trousers, please, Mr. Hickey, and lean over the table.”

The petty officer seems almost taken aback, stood there with eyes blinking in surprise for a few moments before he carefully steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him. He starts working away at the many buttons on his coat.

If he squints in the dim warm light of his oil lamp, Dr. McDonald thinks he can make out the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of Hickey’s mouth.

The buttons are really not coming undone quickly enough for his liking. Hickey is certainly taking his time with it, giving the doctor plenty of time to mull over the solidity of his own judgement. Every brass button that pops out of its hole is like the petal of a daisy; he tricks me, he tricks me not, he tricks me, he tricks me not...

Dr. McDonald has to turn away, has to force himself to avert his eyes.

Shrugging off his suspenders, Hickey moves over to the examination table. He pops the buttons on the front of his trousers and, rather unceremoniously, he drops them. Not a word is spared for the poor doctor until Hickey pulls up his shirttails and leans over the table, steadying himself on his elbows.

Dr. McDonald is hesitant, still lingering by the door like a shy little boy at his mother’s tea party.

“I shan’t beg you, Doctor.”

 _Oh, but how I wish you would,_ whispers a sinful voice from deep within the darkest pits of McDonald’s soul.

The doctor puts the hook on the door, and strides forward into the unknown.

With unsteady hands he unravels Hickey’s bandages. The petty officer seems to have done rather a shoddy job of redoing them after relieving himself, and it is clear that the dressings have not been changed quite as often as required. McDonald frowns; he knows Dr. Peddie to be a fine doctor, but he is still young enough to be foolish. It appears he has not yet have learned that, with medicine as it is with anything else, upkeep really is key.

_If you want something done, do it yourself._

The gashes on Hickey’s backside are now almost all scar tissue, save for the last few where the cat had done the most damage. Those will need a bit longer, so Lieutenant Irving is frankly just going to have to learn how to be patient.

“You’ll need at least a few more days of recovery before you can start thinking about returning to your duties as normal. Perhaps a whole week. I will speak to Lt. Irving myself.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“I’ll clean, salt and dress you now,” McDonald says, as if Hickey wasn’t already quite familiar with the routine by now. “I see Dr. Peddie has been remiss.”

Hickey merely shrugs.

“He’s a busy man, ‘suppose. Bit of scurvy about these days, I reckon.”

“Dr. Peddie would be far busier should you come down with a fever.”

Hickey rearranges himself across the surgical table, and the doctor notices that he still does so with the same slow cautiousness as before. McDonald is suddenly reminded of the first time he’d had the young man here on his slab... simpler times, that.

“You know, Mr. Hickey,” the doctor starts, sloshing his washcloth around in the water basin. “You needn’t be afraid to speak up if you ever feel that you’re not being properly taken care of. Your wellbeing is important to me, as it should be to all men of my profession. And that includes Dr. Peddie.”

The words seem to stir the young man somewhat; Hickey’s head moves to look at McDonald from the corner of his eye and he opens his mouth for a second, as if he wants to say something, but he seems to think better of it.

-

The salting is the worst part of it. Salting, sutures, amputations - he dreads it all, having to hurt his patients, even when he knows they cannot hope to heal without it. It has to get worse before it can get better.

Dr. McDonald has to wonder if perhaps Captain Crozier hadn’t applied the same philosophy to the recent lashings. The doctor has been on many a voyage, seen many a lashing… but still, he could never quite grasp it, the supposed logic behind inflicting gross bodily harm in order to boost morale. The very notion of it goes against everything he knows and believes as a doctor. But he knows the captain is, at his core, not an unreasonable man, not even a cruel man... so there must be something to it?

All he knows for certain is that, try as he might, he cannot seem to rid his mind of the memories of young Magnus Manson’s wails. A gut wrenching sound, that was.

Of course, Hickey had not sobbed. Not during his lashing anyway; he had held it together as much as any man could bear, loath to let his crewmates witness him coming apart at the seams and all of his weaknesses - what few he may have - come spilling out. The boy is far too proud for that, that much is clear to Dr. McDonald. But on this very examination table, when all others had left the room and it was just the two of them, Hickey had finally let his shoulders down. He had let the doctor see him weeping openly, had let him hear his breath hitching in his throat.

It was as if the doctor’s gentle touch had been like a knife slashing into the overflowing grain sack of Hickey’s precarious emotional life, making all of his long-accumulated hurt come spilling out all over the surgery table. McDonald had wanted to hold him then, to scoop him up into his arms and wipe his tears away.

It had been the first genuine emotion he’d seen in the young man, and it had felt like an offering - a gift, of sorts, to be cherished and kept safe.

Hickey hisses in pain as the doctor pours the salt and vinegar concoction into one of the larger gashes, grinds his forehead into the wood. He is wearing a shirt now but, tense as he is, McDonald knows how the lean muscles of his back will be dancing underneath the light fabric. He remembers it from after the lashing, that mesmerizing sight.

_Best not think about it._

“So, Mr. Hickey...” the doctor starts, carefully. “Will you be attending Carnivale?”

He is looking to take his patient’s mind off the agony, as well as his own mind off the mental image conjured up by his traitorous mind: alabaster skin over lean muscle, shimmering with a light misting of sweat.

“I dunno,” Hickey answers through clenched teeth. “I might.”

If he just keeps talking, eventually Hickey will start to relax and think of something other than the pain. Then he will be able to focus fully on the task at hand, really work that salt in.

“I think it’s an sterling idea, having a party for the men.”

“So you’ll be going, then?” the lad asks.

It seems it didn’t take much for Hickey to warm up. Same as it ever was; the first time Dr. McDonald had cared for the lad’s wounds, he had tried this very tactic with him and it hadn’t been long before they were both lost in conversation.

The young sailor is whip smart, curious and easy going, and so carrying a conversation with him is a breeze. McDonald has on many an occasion found himself taking great delight in regaling him with his tales of practicing medicine on the seven seas. Hickey soaks every last bit of information up, a veritable sponge for knowledge - especially what concerns the matters of anatomy, and the Netsilik people.

Dr. McDonald would be lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed their little chats.

“Yes. I am very much looking forward to it, actually.”

“Never took you for a party animal.”

The doctor has to smile; oh, he had missed this.

“Found yourself a costume yet?” Hickey asks.

“A clown.”

Even as he winces through his agonizing treatment, Hickey finds room for a little laugh. Perhaps he thinks that will be a fitting costume for him.

“And you?” McDonald asks, finishing up with the salt and reaching for his jar of ointment. “Have you thought about a suitable disguise?”

Hickey is quiet for a moment. He seems to consider the question carefully before he answers.

“I’ll throw something together.”

As Dr. McDonald starts applying the antibacterial ointment, a comfortable silence grows between them. Hickey rests his forehead on his arms. The silence stretches long, the only sounds now being the creaking wails of the settling wood and the muffled faraway voices of sailors shouting orders and jibes and whatever else.

The lack of conversation eventually becomes less comfortable for McDonald, especially when Hickey starts making noises of contentment; soft little sighs that ring like music in the doctor’s ears.

Hickey turns his head to the side, looking back at McDonald from the corner of his eye... and he smirks.

_God blind me._

With shaking hands, he cuts the dressings, places them carefully over the wounds. They stick in place, aided by the moisture and viscosity of the ointment. 

“Stand up for me, please.”

Hickey obeys, stretching his back and craning his neck to one side, humming softly as the joints in his back and neck and elbows crack. His oversized sailor shirt, open wide at the neckline, hangs loosely around his shoulders. McDonald can see the tight muscles in his neck, his creamy skin smattered with faint freckles.

The doctor frowns; he knows the young sailor is putting on a show. It’s not the least bit subtle.

The doctor knows it should be easy to resist. Cornelius Hickey is not a man that could be classified as beautiful, at least not in the most traditional sense of the word. Not like the captain’s steward, Jopson, whose princely face is proportioned to almost ridiculous perfection, framed by a meticulously brushed mop of raven hair and topped off with a pair of eyes like tropical tide pools. Nor can he be called handsome, like Lieutenant Edward Little with the strong Roman features and his thick dark curls.

_And yet..._

Most people would probably opt to call Hickey something like ‘interesting’: the lad has a rather long and sharp face, a sort of unique and severe look about it that is only softened by kind, bright blue eyes, a disarmingly solemn arch to the eyebrows, and a pair of dimples that tend to come out alongside an infectious, crooked smile that spreads to every part of his face.

 _Yes,_ McDonald thinks to himself, _there is certainly something about this boy._ He can hear Lieutenant Hodgson’s voice in his head: “A certain _je ne sais quoi_.”

It’s something almost fox-like; you want to touch it, even if you know that it might bite your hand. And Hickey most decidedly knows how to use that Something to his advantage, easily endearing himself to people with his boyish grin. This is only accentuated by his general demeanor; playful, captivating, obscene.

When Hickey looks at him, speaks to him, laughs with him, McDonald feels about thirty years younger.

So while most people might not call Hickey neither handsome nor beautiful, and would surely find his appeal rather perplexing, to Dr. McDonald he is the most desirable man he has ever laid eyes on. And right now, as the young man in front of him stretches and moans softly, the good doctor is finding him rather impossible to resist.

It looks as though the little bastard knows this.

_I will have to tread very carefully now._

When he applies the bandages, McDonald’s touch is rougher, twisting and turning Hickey’s lithe body with precious little of his usual gentleness. He doesn’t _want_ to handle him like that, but he must. Otherwise Hickey might get the wrong idea, as he had previously. McDonald can no longer use a gentle touch with this man, can’t let his hands linger as he’d done so many times before.

But god, how shapely that little rump of his is, that which Dr. McDonald now knows every inch of. How perfect it feels in his hands... and how good it would feel to stick his cock between those two inviting cheeks...

_No. Mustn’t think such thoughts._

The fastening of a safety pin marks the end of Hickey’s treatment. The young sailor is still, his back turned, waiting for direction. But the doctor cannot bring himself to give it, cannot seem to move: he is stuck like metal to a magnet.

McDonald’s face hovers just above that delicious spot where his patient’s neck and shoulders meet. He is so close now, he can smell Hickey’s skin - the sweat, the musk.

The young sailor turns his head to look up at him over his shoulder, trying to appear innocent.

“Doctor?”

_Oh, may the Devil take him._

Hickey is calm. But his determination is evident now, in those eyes; shards of ice sharp as daggers, cutting right through McDonald’s soul. He will have a reaction from the doctor yet, and only an enthusiastic _Yes_ will satisfy his voracious appetite.

“Doctor... do you want me or not?”

He is absolutely hypnotic. Dr. McDonald can feel blood rushing to his nether regions.

“Yes,” he whispers with a shaky breath. “God help me, I do.”

His body moves forward before his brain even has time to reconsider: The doctor finally lets himself have what he wants. McDonald’s ravenous mouth latches onto Hickey’s pale neck, and every cell, every atom in his body breaks out in rapturous applause.

Oh, how he had been depriving himself!

The little sailor hums with smug satisfaction, doesn’t appear to mind very much that Dr. McDonald is pawing at him with greedy hands, pushing him over the examination table and grinding his hard cock against his sore bottom. On the contrary, he seems to delight in it, guiding the doctor’s right hand to his own engorged cock. McDonald’s other hand finds its way up under Hickey’s shirt, where the doctor finds a small, pink nipple, hard with anticipation. It is not nearly enough.

“You are so lovely,” McDonald whispers in between kissing and biting at Hickey‘s neck. He feels as if he is confessing to a sin. “I want to see all of you. Please, may I take your shirt off?”

Hickey huffs a small laugh.

“No need to ask permission, Doctor. Just tear it off me.”

He is most certainly not going to tear it, lest someone sees Hickey’s shirt later and start asking all sorts of questions. The doctor may be under the wicked spell of lust but he still has that much sense left in him, at least. By way of a compromise, he grabs Hickey’s shirt by the bottom hem and lifts it up, tugging it over his head. The shirt gets stuck at the buttoned cuffs around Hickey’s wrists, but no matter.

All that matters now is that bare skin, the soft lamplight playing across it, the shadows it casts moving along with Hickey’s well-defined muscles. The curve of his spine. He has the toned and well-proportioned physique of a grown man but he is still so deliciously petite, and it makes McDonald feel big and strong in comparison. He reckons he could pick that little thing up and throw him around, if he so wished, just well and truly ravage him.

He shan’t, of course - he is far too much of a gentleman for that sort of thing, and what’s more, he knows quite well his sore old back couldn’t take it - but the mere idea of it is enough to drive him mad with desire.

Moving some of his patient’s bandages aside, Dr. McDonald slips a hand within the confines of the fabric and finds a hard cock, warm and thick and heavy in his palm.

“Oh,” Hickey gasps, closing his eyes with a smile while McDonald’s lips caress the soft skin on his neck. “Doctor, your hands… your hands are sensational. So warm.”

“One of my finer features,” McDonald whispers. “Or so they say.”

Normally he doesn’t care to brag, but there seems to be little point in acting modest when you’ve got your hand around another man’s prick... and anyway, it makes his little lover smile and hum with delight.

“Who says this?” Hickey inquires as he gyrates his hips, thrusting into Dr. McDonald’s hand. “All the other young sailors you’ve seduced on your many voyages?”

The doctor is somewhat thrown by this. He immediately stops what he’s doing.

“I’ve not been with any of my other patients,” he says, gravely. “Not here on Terror. Only you. I haven’t... not in many many years.”

Hickey turns around with one of those lovely cheeky smiles on his face. He puts the back of his dainty little hand to McDonald’s face.

“It was a joke, my dear doctor.”

“Oh.”

Reaching down, the young sailor undoes the buttons at the front of McDonald’s trousers, and the doctor gasps when Hickey’s nimble little fingers plunge down there.

“Oh, my,” Hickey laughs, marveling at the size of his lover’s cock as his hand closes around its hefty girth. “Bit of a dark horse, aren’t you, Doctor?”

McDonald doesn’t know what to say; he knows he is somewhat above average, but he prefers not to boast about it. That would be crass.

“But you know,” Hickey mutters into the dip of the doctor’s clavicle while slowly pumping his cock. “I do believe I’d be rather upset if I knew somebody else here had had a taste of this monster of yours.”

McDonald cannot respond; Hickey certainly knows what he’s doing, knows how to flick his wrist and roll his thumb over the head to render his subject entirely speechless.

“I daresay I’d be _jealous_ , Doctor.”

It almost sounds like a threat. McDonald would berate him for his hypocrisy - if the charge of “dirtiness” were anything to go by, this little devil has had other men on this ship, perhaps even several - that is, he would if he were capable of processing a single thought relating to anything other than Hickey’s artful hand working on his aching cock.

“No one else,” the doctor repeats. “Only you.”

Hickey smiles again, flashing his pointy canines.

“Mmm… that makes me feel so special.”

It might just be mockery - in fact, he is certain it is - but now McDonald is too far gone to respond with anything but the utmost sincerity.

“You are. You are so special.”

The hand on his cock starts pumping harder, faster, mercilessly. Dr. McDonald meets the gaze of his young patient, and now there is a wildfire behind those eyes. Hickey looks mad, wide eyed and open mouthed, clearly enraptured by the satisfaction of being complimented and praised with such generosity and fervor.

The doctor thinks he is starting to see it now, the faint outline of what lies in Hickey’s heart.

“Will you fuck me?” the little seducer asks, teeth worrying at his bottom lip.

He ought to stop this now, turn him away. The reasons for that are plentiful, including his own self respect. He ought to once again make it clear to Hickey that he wouldn’t be able to look himself in the eye if he were to use his position to take advantage of a patient.

He really ought to consider the ramifications that might follow, should somebody catch them in the act; McDonald has seen the effects of the lash, and he is not particularly keen to make its acquaintance. And he is sure Hickey wouldn’t like a reprise of his ordeal anytime soon, either.

Dr. McDonald thinks he ought to remind Hickey of how sinful it is, in the eyes of The Lord, for two men to lie together - even if he doesn’t necessarily believe in all that himself.

He should, at the very least, point out the danger of making love so freely, all the potential life-long or deadly afflictions.

But regardless of Hickey’s promiscuity, Dr. McDonald cannot say he has found any evidence of disease on his body yet, neither venereal nor otherwise. The young man is fit as a fiddle, if a smidge underweight, his skin unmarred by previous sins. In fact, the doctor can scarcely say he’s seen skin so perfectly unblemished...

And oh, the lad is so very _willing._

-

All of that painstaking work, all for nought; the bandages that once adorned Hickey’s pelvis are now lying in a messy heap around his ankles.

“You’re doing so well,” the doctor coos into his ear. “You’re opening up so nicely for me, you’re so brave.”

The little sailor moans softly and arches his back, and McDonald wants nothing more than to simply thrust his cock deep into that inviting little hole currently clenching hard around his fingers. But he must restrain himself, for he knows how painful this can be for the receiving party, if not executed with care and patience.

Hickey, for his part, doesn’t seem to be too preoccupied with going about this properly.

“Doctor, please hurry,” he begs, uncharacteristically needy. “I can’t stand it much longer.”

The doctor knows he is simply being dramatic; young men can be so damned impatient, expecting instant gratification in all things. Especially sex. 

When McDonald finally sinks his length into the warmth of Hickey’s tight little arse, it‘s like everything is falling into place.

“Oh, God...”

He attempts to stifle his pleasured groan, still mindful not to make too much noise. Hickey, for his part, only whimpers softly when he is breached.

With every inch that goes in, Dr. McDonald is getting dangerously close to reaching his climax. It is almost too much for him, it has been too long since he last allowed himself to have release - in fact, he is not sure he can even recall the last time. And he might’ve found his release too early, if it hadn’t been for Hickey is tensing up again.

The little sailor is bent over the examination table, hands gripping the side, his back and shoulders once again taut as a bowstring, just like when Dr. McDonald had applied the salt.

“Are you alright?” the doctor asks. “Shall I stop?”

Hickey gives an indignant huff.

“Absolutely fucking not.”

“You… you’re absolutely not alright, or-“

“No, I’m fine.” Hickey interrupts, irritated now. “Don’t stop. Never stop.”

“Alright then. Well, just... just try to relax.”

Hickey huffs a laugh of indignation.

“Easier said than done.”

“You don’t take this position very often, do you, Mr. Hickey?” McDonald asks, testing the waters.

Hickey’s head turns slowly, his bright eyes glaring daggers at the doctor.

“Often enough,” he says, rather curt. “Granted… it has been a while.”

You’d think the lad has something to prove.

Dr. McDonald decides not to ask any more questions. Instead, he again leans over to kiss the skin of Hickey’s freckled shoulder, to whisper encouragements and endearments in his ear.

“You are so good, taking all of me like that...”

Hickey moans at that, and that delicious sound spurs the doctor on; the young man seems to respond well to praise and admiration. Seems to crave it.

“You are really something,” McDonald continues as he sinks in deeper. “Perhaps the best I’ve had.”

“ _Perhaps_?” Hickey asks, rather out of breath but apparently not too out of breath to provide commentary.

“Too early to say,” McDonald teases. “But I don’t believe you’ll disappoint me.”

Hickey gives a breathy little laugh.

“Oh, I will try not to fail you, Doctor.”

McDonald is down to the hilt now, buried deep in his young patient. He waits for a beat or two, revelling in this moment of sexual limbo, before gently sliding back out. He positions his hips at an angle, one that he knows is going to drive the head of his cock right into Hickey’s sensitive prostate.

Taking a deep breath, he thrusts back in.

It’s a lucky thing he’d had the wherewithal to cover Hickey’s mouth with his hand. Because when he hits that spot, the little sailor emits something that would have amounted to rather a loud cry, had it only been allowed to escape. With the doctor silencing him, it’s nothing but a muffled whimper.

“Did you like that?”

His hand is still over Hickey’s mouth, and the lad can only moan and nod emphatically.

Dr. McDonald drives his hips forward, drawing yet another moan from his lover. He pulls back, thrusts in again, and on and on like that until Hickey is well adjusted and there’s been established a good, steady rhythm.

By this point Hickey’s skin is damp with sweat, the little sailor only barely holding himself up on his shaking legs. And still McDonald’s hand is over his mouth, lest he cry out too loud and alert the rest of the crew, what few of them still left. He is sure Lieutenant Irving will be lurking about just around the corner.

But for all their caution, there is still a knock on the door. However, it is not Irving that comes calling from behind that door.

“Dr. Peddie? Dr. McDonald?”

Those are the dulcet tones of Dr. Henry Goodsir.

_Oh dear. So he’s back._

Hickey turns his head to look back at him; his eyes are wide with surprise, but they also show a glint of something like impish mischief. McDonald doesn’t dare take his hand off that mouth; who knows what calamities might come spilling out of it now.

“Yes?” he calls out. “What do you need, Dr. Goodsir?”

There is a moment’s hesitation from the other side of the door, and the two lovers are still as statues.

“There is a matter I need to discuss with you,” Goodsir finally calls out. “About our food supply. Is Dr. Peddie in there with you?”

Now Hickey is making it hard for McDonald to keep his composure, as he - to the doctor’s great horror - begins to rock his hips back onto his cock.

“He has taken ill, I’m afraid,” McDonald replies, hoping that his voice won’t crack as he tries his best to contain Hickey and his sinful hips.

“Dr. McDonald, if you don’t mind my asking... why’ve you locked the door?”

_Shit._

“I, er,” McDonald starts, grasping for anything that might sound like the truth. “I am seeing a patient that requires a bit of extra privacy and discretion.”

Well, it’s not a lie, as such.

“Oh,” comes the deflated response from outside. “Alright, then.”

Even from behind the wooden barrier, McDonald can tell that the young naturalist is blushing like a maid; embarrassment and tension lies heavy in his voice. But whatever Goodsir is picturing, it is probably not something quite as salacious as what is actually taking place on the other side of the door.

“Anything I might contribute with?” Goodsir asks.

Hickey’s head whips back to look at McDonald again and this time his eyes go wide as saucers, sparkling with mischief that is positively _diabolical_. The older man shakes his head at him and gives him a stern look, a warning.

It’s no use; Hickey is a glutton for danger. He is starting to move again, his hips gyrating.

_Wicked, wicked lad._

“No, no, there’s no need,” Dr. McDonald supplies as he tries to still his young lover with a pair of firm hands on his hips. “My patient is rather insistent.”

Another pregnant pause from beyond the door, and McDonald wonders if Goodsir is a bloodhound for deceit, if he can smell the lies in the air.

“Well, as soon as you are ready, will you come see me? I came from Erebus to discuss a most urgent matter with you... and Peddie, as well, if he is not too indisposed to talk. Forgive me, but I really must insist on this.”

“Certainly,” McDonald chokes out, finally starting to succumb to Hickey’s wicked ways. “I- I shall fetch Dr. Peddie and we’ll call on you later.”

“Thank you.”

Footsteps move down the deck, becoming fainter and fainter before they finally disappear altogether.

“That was cruel,” McDonald says, trying his best to sound stern, even as his voice is trembling. “And foolish. You could have compromised us.”

“Do you think so?” Hickey asks, his mouth now finally free.

He tries to sound innocent, but the sideways smirk on his face betrays him. A chill runs up the doctor’s spine. 

“This was a mistake.”

McDonald tries to disentangle himself from his provocative patient, but Hickey grabs both his arms, keeps him in place.

“No, don’t,” he says, hastily. “Please. I’m sorry.”

The doctor knows full well that he is not sorry, not one bit. But that way the boy is looking at him now, over his shoulder, his blue eyes wide and pleading... McDonald can’t deny him a damned thing.

Again he is reminded of when Hickey had first come in for care; the young sailor had walked in proud, spine straight as an arrow even as the lash had set his backside on fire. The boy had still had his guard up, then. But he’d laid down on the table, and as soon as McDonald had put his hands on him, he had let himself rest, let himself weep and gasp and sob freely. And when the doctor had finished wrapping him in bandages, Hickey had looked over his shoulder at him - just as he is now - and given him his heartfelt thanks.

Already then, McDonald had known that he was in deep trouble.

“Fuck me,” Hickey whispers now, taking the doctor’s hand and leading it to his own hard prick. “Please?”

Really, how can he say no?

McDonald starts slow, careful not to disturb any of Hickey’s remaining wounds. He wouldn’t want to undo all that hard work.

Caring for the lad’s wounds had become a point of pride for him these past weeks; not only a matter of making sure that his patient stayed healthy, but also a matter of restoring those shapely buttocks to their former glory. McDonald doesn’t like to think of himself as a particularly superficial man, but he knows he’d be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t noticed the fine curve of Hickey’s behind - even trying to look at it from a purely objective angle, from a place of science and professionalism.

He is only a man, after all.

And Heavens, how he had wanted to caress that soft skin. How he had longed to let his hands wander up that lean back and take purchase, one hand on a hip and another on a shoulder, so that he may swiftly and easily guide Hickey’s arse up and down his length. How he had wanted to use that strong, youthful body, and work to make the sweet lad writhe under him and cry out in ecstasy... and here he is now, at long last, doing exactly that.

Dr. McDonald strokes his lover’s cock, matches his hand’s rhythm with thrusts angled upwards in such a way that he knows will let Hickey find his pleasure; he has studied anatomy long enough to know. He has been at sea long enough.

“Oh,” Hickey gasps, his head thrown back in pleasure. “Please... more.”

“You don’t deserve it,” McDonald mutters, still irritated by Hickey’s reckless behavior, though he keeps going at it. “I should take my pleasure and leave you to fend for yourself. Leave you aching.”

Hickey’s response is somewhere between a moan and a laugh.

“But you won’t,” he says, smug as ever. “You’re enjoying my enjoyment far too much for that.”

The little imp grinds his arse back against his cock.

“And anyway,” he adds, “you’re not that kind of man.”

_He is right, damn his eyes._

McDonald picks up his speed and power, determined to fuck the smugness out of that boy for good.

“Ah, Doctor,” Hickey breathes, closing his eyes. His brow furrows in pleasure. “Yes... oh, God.”

His voice sort of cracks, then. Trembles. A desperate, most wondrous sound.

That velvety Northern tongue making such lustful noises is enough to make Dr. McDonald’s heart pound, even under normal circumstances. Hearing the evidence of Hickey’s unraveling - those noises he’s making, his laboured breathing - is nothing short of an aphrodisiac. Not to mention the sight of the little seducer; bent over the table with his head turned to the side, eyes closed under a worried brow, his pink mouth hanging open in ecstasy, beads of sweat making his body glisten in the warm glow of the lamplight, accentuating every lean muscle.

McDonald is going to come, if he is not careful. And perhaps that is exactly what Hickey wants; the triumph and satisfaction of making an older and more experienced man lose his composure and spill prematurely, like an over excited youth during his first few fumbling attempts at lovemaking... but the doctor is loath to hand control over so readily.

Remembering now how his lover had responded to flattery, McDonald grabs a fistful of soft, thick ginger hair and pulls Hickey up to whisper a litany of praise and filth into his ear.

“Lovely lad,” the doctor says, the hand around Hickey’s cock picking up the pace. “I’ve thought about having your tight little arse since you first laid down on this table here.”

“Is... is that right?” Hickey asks, just a touch out of breath now. “I knew it. I knew you were lying before, when you said you didn’t want me.”

A pang of guilt hits McDonald right in his gut, but he tries not to let it make him lose focus.

“I just knew you’d be perfect,” he says. “I knew you could take all of this cock. Knew you were strong enough. These other lads, they’re soft. Far too fragile.”

The little sailor gasps, tries to stifle a moan.

“You make me so hard, I couldn’t stop thinking about you...”

“Doctor, I’m-“

McDonald knows the lad is close now, can feel Hickey’s thighs start to tremble again. His arm settles across his lover’s chest, holding him firmly in place.

“You,” he mutters, in between planting small kisses behind Hickey’s ear, “you’re my most treasured little secret.”

When he reaches his climax, Hickey bites his lip to keep from crying out. But McDonald knows he’s got plenty to say, and he is keen to hear it.

“Don’t hold back now, Cornelius. I want to hear you.”

Thrusting into the doctor’s hand, Hickey comes with a pained cry. That tight little body writhes like a serpent in McDonald’s arms as thick spurts of pearly white shoot onto his stomach and over his lover’s fist. His voice breaks into sobs as McDonald gives the pulsing cock a few final pumps. And the doctor revels in the sound of it, no longer bothered that someone might hear them.

He allows Hickey to slump back against him and catch his breath for a moment, before he pulls out.

“Wha- well, don’t you want to finish?” Hickey asks, bewildered.

“Of course,” McDonald says, turning the confused little caulker around by his shoulders. “Simply making it more comfortable for you.”

The doctor grabs a nearby piece of cloth, drapes it over the end of the table.

“Afraid I’ll make a mess, Doctor?” Hickey asks, his blue eyes curious and questioning.

“It’s clean,” McDonald explains. “For your wounds, should they make contact with the table. I would be loath to have to salt you again.”

“Ah.”

Hickey seems pleasantly surprised by the gesture, his eyes blinking, making the doctor think his young lover might not be quite accustomed to such care and consideration.

“You’re quite the gentleman, Dr. McDonald.”

“Well. I am a doctor.”

Hickey lets Dr. McDonald guide him down onto the examination table. His shirt cuffs are still stuck around his wrists, but the little sailor makes quick work of it. He then props himself up on his elbows and lets the doctor grab him by his thighs to adjust their position. Hoisting his lover further towards the edge of the table, McDonald makes sure those sore buttocks won’t be making contact with the hard wooden surface - the slightest bit of friction, and all his hard work might come undone.

“Seems like a lot of trouble.”

“I want to have a proper look at you,” McDonald explains. “Want to see your sweet face.”

It must be the first time Hickey has heard such a sentiment from a lover, because he rewards the doctor with a smile. And unlike his usual cheeky smirk, this one is remarkably genuine; an unrehearsed and pleasantly surprised smile, accompanied by bright, wide open eyes. Dr. McDonald wishes he could have a daguerreotype of this moment and frame it.

Now it’s unbearable, the urge to kiss him until they’re both out of breath. But McDonald’s cock is still aching, and so he focuses his attentions on the task at hand.

He prepares himself with more ointment and pushes back in, ever so carefully; Hickey grabs the edges of the table, anchoring himself for McDonald’s re-entry.

“Tell me if it hurts,” the doctor whispers.

Hickey only gives a quick shake of his head, and it’s impossible to tell if that is supposed to be a _It doesn’t hurt_ or an _I’d never tell you if it did._

“You know,” the doctor adds, cautiously, “making love doesn’t have to be painful.”

He gets no more of a response from his lover than a curious arch of his brow, as if what he’d just said is the most preposterous thing Hickey has ever heard.

McDonald moves slowly at first, careful not to make contact with the sores. He allows his lover to adjust for a few minutes, but this time around it doesn’t take very long at all before the young sailor is opening up like a flower. Hickey’s cock, which had begun to soften just after his climax, starts to fill with blood once more.

Astounding, really, how quickly a young man’s body bounces back after his initial orgasm. McDonald can’t remember the last time his own body was capable of such miracles. At his age he is barely able to keep up the pace, let alone be carrying reserves.

Hickey is panting now, holding himself up on his wiry forearms, starting to push back against McDonald.

“Careful now.” The doctor stills him with a hand on his chest. “Mind your wounds.”

“To hell with my wounds,” Hickey says. He is agitated now, he’s become an animal, and he forgets himself entirely. “I need it harder.”

Those ravenous words send a jolt of pleasure through Dr. McDonald’s body, and it is almost too much for him, he almost loses himself - but no, he won’t let that happen, not yet. He is determined; first, he will make his little lover come once more. 

He’ll give the lad exactly what he needs.

Hickey lets out a little gasp as the doctor’s hips starts pistoning into him at a different angle, lying down flat and letting the back of his head rest against the wood, his sweat-soaked hair fanning out behind him. His hands grab hold of McDonald’s arms, desperate and clawing, those untrimmed fingernails leaving little nicks in his skin. Neither of them take notice.

“I adore you,” the doctor confesses between laboured breaths.

His thighs and hips and back are so, so tired, but he must see this through. And perhaps, with a few well-chosen words, he can make it.

“Sweet lad, perfect lad...”

Hickey smiles, closing his eyes as he hums contentedly.

“Touch me, Doctor.”

McDonald won’t be asked twice. The head of Hickey’s cock is already slick with the remnants of his previous climax, making a mess on his belly, and the doctor uses it to slick up his hand, along with a hefty glob of his own spit. He strokes his patient’s cock in time with his thrusts until Hickey is once again coming apart beneath him.

“Oh, God,” he all but whimpers, “fuck… Doctor-“

“Go on,” McDonald says, his breath thick and heavy. “Lose yourself. I want to see your face this time.”

”Doctor... Tell me...”

”Yes?”

Hickey looks him straight in the eye, almost piercing his soul.

“Tell me how much you want me.”

He looks almost sad now, peering up at Dr. McDonald with big wet eyes like a lost little puppy; desperate, longing, and frustrated. 

“I want you, Cornelius. So much. God, I want to keep you.”

“Yes-“

“Please... please be mine.”

Hickey’s climax is less dramatic this time, arriving with a soft whimper, almost inaudible, his pink lips parted as McDonald drives into him, wringing the last drops of pleasure from him. He tenses up for a brief moment, thighs quivering against Dr. McDonald’s hips, before his whole body goes limp, slumping down on the table.

The doctor cannot help himself now; he must have a kiss. Digging his fingers into Hickey’s thick ginger hair, he claims him with his lips. The lad allows it, tired and sated as he is.

He pulls back to find Hickey staring up at him, dazed and smiling, gaze soft and his sweet mouth wet and red and swollen with kisses. Now McDonald finally lets himself go. He grabs hold of Hickey’s hip and shoulder, driving himself as deep as he can, and while he rides the crashing waves of his orgasm he simply can’t take his eyes off the lad.

For a handful blessed seconds, his entire body feels electric.

When he finally pulls out, it feels like this will be his last physical action on Earth; his lungs are on fire, his hips and lower back completely shot. A good minute and a half goes by where he is simply trying to collect himself after that marathon of lovemaking.

“How’s that then?” Hickey asks casually, back with his usual smirk as he stretches and puts one of his arms behind his head.

“Fantastic,” McDonald replies with a sigh. “Thank you.”

“ _Thank you_?” Hickey laughs. “You’re silly.”

Indeed, he does feel silly. But Hickey doesn’t mock him further; he just lies there smiling up at him, his fingers playing with the soft golden fuzz on his lower stomach. He is absolutely perfect.

Dr. McDonald is taken over by a sudden lightheadedness. He pulls out carefully and lets himself collapse on top of his young lover. Cradling Hickey’s face in his hands, he showers him with tiny kisses; on his cheeks, his mouth, behind his ears, down his neck.

“I can feel your heart racing, Doctor,” Hickey mutters as he strokes the doctor’s sweat-damp hair. “I suppose I must’ve worn you right out.”

McDonald can practically _hear_ the self satisfied smirk on his lover’s mischievous lips, but he simply does not have it in him to retaliate in any meaningful way. Hickey is right; he _is_ wiped out.

He closes his eyes, and loses all sense of time.

-

Hickey stirs first, gently pushing against the doctor’s chest in a bid to be released from the embrace.

“I’d best go.”

McDonald cannot say he isn’t somewhat disappointed. But he, too, knows that the longer they stay in this embrace, the more likely it is they will get _caught_ in this embrace.

“Aye. But first I’ll have to redress your wounds. They’re all a mess now.”

Dressing wounds is a breeze now that they’ve jumped the hurdle of sexual tension. Finally, Dr. McDonald is able to give his full attention to his job, rather than letting himself get too distracted by Hickey’s cock, his firm little arse, or the soft skin of his inner thighs.

While Hickey dresses himself, Dr. McDonald watches him with a sad longing; for some reason it feels like it might be the last time they’re together like this.

Once again, he recognizes that he is in deep, deep trouble.

“Cornelius...” he starts, carefully. “Did you... did Lieutenant Irving really write that note?”

Hickey turns to look at him with an expression of genuine amusement. The lad shakes his head at him, but a wry grin is blooming on his face.

“Doctor. Are you suggesting that I forged an officer’s signature?”

McDonald can only give him a shrug.

“Look,” Hickey says and throws his arms out as if to suggest that he has nothing to hide. “You are quite free to believe whatever you will.”

“Hardly an answer.”

“Well, it’s the only answer I have for you.”

The doctor simply nods, feeling somewhat sheepish now; he really ought not be so suspicious.

McDonald watches silently as the cheeky little Irishman pulls on his suspenders and dons his oversized sailor coat. The doctor laments every button being buttoned; every little thing being put back in its right place is taking Hickey ever closer towards that door.

Hickey pauses for a moment by the doorway.

“Will I see you at Carnivale this evening, then?” he asks, as if reading the doctor’s turmoiled mind.

Dr. McDonald is taken aback; does he detect a tone of hopefulness in that question?

“Yes, er, I would imagine so.”

Hickey smiles again, and his face is as bright and kissable as ever.

“I’ll be looking forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> If there were any continuity goofs in terms of the canon timeline here, I am so sorry. I am very stupid and time is difficult :-)


End file.
